Our house stands on what was once an old rice field, a land with a dark history as a World War II battlefield. Built during the 1960s, our home holds secrets of its own, and I’ve always had a hunch that it’s haunted. However, my firsthand experience with the supernatural didn’t occur until four years ago.
My younger brother, born with a 17-year gap between us, had developed a habit of watching TV in my parent’s room, situated at the top of our staircase. He’d perch himself at the edge of the bed for easy access to bathroom breaks.
One Saturday, I returned home from my graveyard shift job, just in time for lunch. Tired, I headed straight to my room to change clothes. As I ascended the stairs, I noticed that my parent’s room was open, and my little brother sat at the edge of their bed, engrossed in the television. I decided not to disturb him and proceeded to my room to change.
After changing, I descended the stairs and discovered that lunch was already prepared. I called out to my little brother to join us, but my mother, in the kitchen, responded with a shout that sent shivers down my spine: “He’s not here; he went to church with Grandma!” Panic surged within me as I rushed back upstairs to confirm her words.
Upon entering the room, I found it empty. There was no trace of my little brother. I hurriedly descended the stairs, my heart pounding with fear, unable to comprehend the inexplicable disappearance. The realization hit me like a wave of dread: I had witnessed something beyond the realm of the living in our haunted home.